


What Are You?

by Calico (Calico321)



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gen, post episode 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22097233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico321/pseuds/Calico
Summary: After leaving Nevarro, Din cleans up his wounds and takes an assessment of his new life.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 130





	What Are You?

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in a long time, but this show has inspired me. I love it too much. So I had to write this post-episode fic thinking about how badly Din was hurt and how much things have changed for him, not to mention how he's going to handle his new mission. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Din stood in the cramped galley in the belly of the Razor Crest, stripped to the waist. Except, of course, for his helmet.

His armor was piled on the table in front of him and the child stood next to it watching him with that quiet curiosity he always seemed to possess.

 _You will be as his father_.

“Alright,” he said with a tired resignation. He couldn’t have imagined ever removing his helmet in front of another being. And not just once, but twice in a single day’s cycle. Of course the first time technically didn’t count, but Din didn’t like technicalities much. He liked order and rules.

Decision made, he delayed no further and simply lifted it off his head, sucking air between his teeth as a few strands of blood-crusted hair went with it. The droid’s Bacta-spray had done its job; his brains were no longer in danger of spilling out from his crushed skull, but that didn’t mean it all didn’t still hurt like hell. He reached back and gently prodded the area recently healed over, wincing, and then placed the helmet next to the rest of the armor.

The child cooed at him in what seemed like a question, tilted his head and reached out a tentative hand.

“It’s okay,” Din said with a small smile. “You see? I’m just a human, a simple human.” The child moved closer to him, clearly without realizing he was dangerously close to the edge of the table and Din reached out to stop him as quickly as his stiff and sore body would allow. With a groan he bent down to face level with the little alien. The child touched his face with a hand then turned and touched the helmet. Din chuckled. “No, I wasn’t born with that thing. This is me. This is what I am, just like Omera, and Winta, and Cara.” Small claws touched his nose and cheek and lips.

With his left hand, Din reached up and gently placed the pad of his index finger on the child’s palm. The fingers immediately curved around it. Din’s thumb brushed the back of the hand. “The real question is: What are you?”

In answer, the child brought the finger up, placed it in his mouth, and bit. It wasn’t a hard bite, but the teeth were sharp. “Ow!” Din said and laughed has he pulled back gently. “Let’s not do the biting thing, okay?”

“Gah,” the child responded and giggled.

He moved the child back further on the table, away from the edge, and he plopped down to sit and watch. Din turned to his right where the galley’s components lay. On an upper storage cabinet hung a mirror and Din surveyed his face. It was streaked with dirt and sweat and blood. His hair was flat in some places and stuck up in tangled clumps in others. He really wished he would have taken a shower in a full refresher before departing Nevarro. Instead he bent down to the galley’s sink, moaning as several broken ribs protested violently. He turned on the water and used his hand to cup and pour the water down the back of his head, working his fingers through his hair. The water sluiced down the drain with a sickening red tint.

When the water had become acceptably clear again, he shut off the faucet and straightened up. This caused his whole world to go liquid and, for a moment, he was afraid the grav unit had failed because he was certain his feet were lifting off the floor. He reached out and grabbed the countertop with one hand and the edge of the door frame with his other. His stomach tightened, loosened, and heaved so violently that he had to hunch back over the sink. It had been many hours since he last ate, and only a small amount of foul-tasting liquid escaped his mouth.

“Oh boy,” he whispered as he rinsed his mouth off. “Let’s try that a little slower.” He took a breath, closed his eyes, and raised up once again. He took another breath and opened his eyes. Better.

He had laid out his medical supplies earlier and now grabbed some Bacta-wipes. He began with his face. There were a few cuts and – he checked his nose – yes broken. He lifted his chin and inspected the ring of angry red around his throat, the one area not covered in armor, where the skin had taken the blast of flames directly. He dabbed the Bacta-wipe around. There didn’t appear to be any blisters, for which he was grateful.

He proceeded to inspect and clean each arm; some pain under his left shoulder blade told him he had probably ripped something in there, either from the blast or dangling from Gideon’s ship. Then his torso. He grimaced as he saw the large starburst bruise under his left breast and pressed his finger delicately around until he was certain he’d found the breaks. There were larger bandages soaked with the healing chemical and these he placed along the broken ribs. He breathed deeply. It hurt, but these weren’t the first, and probably wouldn’t be the last broken ribs of his life. It would have to do.

His body taken care of, he needed to tend to his armor. From one of the cabinets he took out a box. He turned around and settled himself down on the bench next to the table. The child sat where he’d left him. This was almost a surprise. The little guy seemed to have a singularly contrary nature about staying put. He had pulled one of the Beskar pieces into his lap and was gnawing on the edge. Din couldn’t help but notice that it was the right pauldron with the mudhorn signet. He smiled and reached over to touch the raised insignia. _You are a clan of two._ “I guess this does belong to you as well.”

He then opened the box and took out a cloth and vial of polish. He took his chest-piece into his lap and began to carefully clean and smooth each inch of it. It was the old way. It was slower than having a machine do it. But it was the only way to treat Beskar. The work calmed him, eased his mind, and let his thoughts wander. To the past and to the future.

Din Djarin was an eight-year-old boy who had been rescued from annihilation at the hands of machines, droids with one command – kill. He was an orphan and alone, but the Mandalorians took him in. They fed his body and his mind and soul. At thirteen he had a choice – continue to live among them until his sixteenth birthday and then set out on his own path, or train to take the Creed and receive his helmet. Din had already lost everything once, he did not want that again. So he trained. He wasn’t the best or the strongest or the fastest and there were nights he cried himself to sleep fearing he would never be accepted, but he persevered and discovered his strengths. He would never quit. He would never be deterred. He would find an answer to every problem or die trying. He would be a Mandalorian.

Din Djarin was a bounty hunter. He tracked his prey with single-minded determination through any obstacle. When his people were scattered and hunted into hiding, he was chosen to be the one to be allowed out, to use his skills and provide for the covert. That was his reason for being and he wanted nothing more. He did not long for a spouse or a family. He already had his family, he had foundlings to care for, his life was exactly how it should have been.

Yet Din Djarin was alone once again. His covert – his family – was once again taken from him. Except…for this child, this strange being, with magical powers and a taste for live frogs.

He stopped rubbing his armor and looked up. “What are you?” he asked quietly again. The child remained mute on the subject. Din sighed and put the armor aside. From a pouch on his leggings he pulled out two objects and set them on the table. He and the child regarded them for several moments.

He glanced up and met the child’s eyes, then down again. The first item was a tracking fob, the second was a bounty puck. It contained a chain code transmitted from Greef at his request shortly after his takeoff. He switched the puck on and a holographic image of Dr. Pershing appeared to spin around above it. The child’s eyes widened and it made as startled cry. “It’s okay,” Din said and reached out a reassuring hand. “Just a holo, it can’t hurt you. But if we’re going to find out anything about you we need to work backwards. And I’m not planning on knocking on any Imps’ doors asking questions. This guy, however,” he pointed at the hologram, “seemed to know a lot about you.”

According to Greef, the doctor had made a speedy exit from the planet shortly after Din’s escape with the child.

“We’re going to do what we do best: find him. And then I’m going to ask him a lot of questions. And for every question he doesn’t provide a satisfactory answer to, I’m going to hurt him.” He switched off the puck and looked into those large, dark eyes. “I can’t promise to find your people, and I can’t promise that if I do find them, I’ll leave you with them, but I do promise that I will keep you safe and happy. Because no matter what you are, you are now my child, my family.”


End file.
